


Of Wands and Gold Wings

by Bratling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, JAG
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-10-19 18:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17606873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bratling/pseuds/Bratling
Summary: Circumstances change. Mission statements change. And one little boy's life will change and he will change the lives of people half a world away.





	1. Chapter 1

 

**Of Wands and Gold Wings**

By LauraBF aka. Bratling

 

Disclaimer: I do not own Harm, Mac, the JAG crew, or Harry and Company. I borrowed them, hugged them, squeezed them, called them George, and put them back like a good girl. Seriously, Harm, Mac, and the TV series JAG belong to Donald P. Bellisario, Belisaurius Productions, Paramount Pictures, and Columbia Broadcasting Service Entertainment. Harry Potter and all related characters and situations belong to JK Rowling.

 

Author’s Notes: This is an unlikely crossover if there ever was one, I suppose, but it’s been bugging me on and off for years. Spoilers up to season four of JAG, and not so many spoilers for Harry Potter—yet. I reserve the right to reuse canon events from either universe as applicable. Be warned—I have screwed with the Potterverse timeline to make it work with the JAG timeline simply because of the fact that the Wizarding World is cut off from both popular culture and current events, it's easier to manipulate than the JAG timeline. While James and Lily Potter were killed by Voldemort on October 31, it wasn’t 1981 this time around. This begins right after the season four episode, _Going After Francesca_ (Airdate October 13, 1998). The JAG crew has been back from Italy for a few days. _The Martin Baker Fanclub_ , (Airdate October 20, 1998) while bits of it might have happened, won’t play much into this, because Harm will be gone by the time Roscoe Martin comes looking for him. I have changed some ancient history JAG timeline to make this work as well; Harm's grandfather was killed when he was shot down during Korea instead of WWII.

 

Harry is four years old, so the Potters died in 1995. The rest of the timeline is adjusted accordingly. (Let’s just say that everybody in James and Lily’s generation married and had children later because Voldemort waited to further build his forces.) I have endeavored to stay true to both universes. Be warned, at times there will be some British English in here, simply because that’s where the Potterverse is set; I’ll be using a mix, depending on what country we’re in at the time and the nationality of the POV character. The standard JAG headings will be used… and for Potterverse fans, Zulu time is Greenwich Mean Time, which is pretty much local time in the UK. Pairings for Harry--well, the jury is out on it. It will be a long time, in any case. Otherwise, I'm a diehard Harm/Mac shipper and I would have preferred to see a slow evolution to their relationship in the last season. (Earlier, really!) TPTB dropped the ball on that one.

 

I'm as of yet uncertain, but some NCIS characters may appear. Please remember, NCIS is a JAG spinoff, so since they canonically inhabit the same universe, I don't consider it a crossover.

 

We _will_ be dealing, at least in the beginning, with child abuse because, canonically, Harry is an abused child. I will be going a little more into it than Rowling did, because I don't feel that I can blow it off the same way she did in the Potterverse. This is not intended to be an “issue” story, but certain canon issues must be dealt with. In its own way, (Nobody's Child and the follow up to that episode and a bit more with Chloe and Mattie) JAG dealt with child abuse as well, though it will be a little more personal to Harm and Mac in this AU.

 

Before anyone tries to kill me over Mrs. Figg's attitude, please remember, she's elderly. Her attitude is directly related to how and when she was raised. Remember, child abuse wasn't recognized at *all* until 1968, and until the late 70s-early 80s, public awareness was nil. She's in her 70s at this point, and the prevailing attitude among that generation is that it “doesn't happen in respectable families” (i.e., anyone they know), it's “just discipline,” and/or it's “a family matter.” In other words, it's not her problem. Really, that's the problem with Dumbledore, too. He knew that Harry wasn't happy with the Dursleys, but child abuse is so far off his radar that it doesn't exist in his world view. It's a stupid, head-in-the-sand attitude, but recognizing child abuse as a crime and a widespread problem is a fairly new development.

 

And here’s a crash course in some Potterverse terminology.

 

Money- The Wizarding world still runs on a gold standard, so paper money is out. And because they're an electricity free society, so is any kind of digital money. A _galleon_ is the highest denomination of British wizarding money. (It's unknown whether it's universal currency or not. I'd lean towards not, though for convenience sake, I've said that as former colonies, America, Australia, and Canada still use galleons, sickles, and knuts.) Canon has it that five British pounds is equal to a galleon, but JKR has admitted that she sucks at math. (the numbers game for population vs. Hogwarts attendance proves that right, as well.) Galleons are large, solid gold coins about the size of a hubcap. (Remember British hubcaps are about the size of saucers, not dinner plates like American hubcaps.) From the size alone, it's fairly obvious, at least to a good many HP FF authors, that the Gringotts Goblins are ripping off the population, because that much gold is worth a lot more than five pounds! In 1998, one ounce of gold was worth just under $300. The math doesn't work out at all. Now, there are 17 silver _sickles_ in a galleon, and 29 _knuts_ to a sickle. In 1998, five British pounds was worth approximately $8.34. (One British pound was worth approximately $1.67.)

 

_F_ _loo_ \- a communication/travel network using fireplaces and a special substance known as ‘floo powder.’ When used as a kind of telephone (only way better, since you can actually see the person you’re talking to) it’s called making a _Firecall_.

 

_Muggle_ \- a human being who lacks magic.

 

_Muggleborn_ \- a witch or wizard born to non-magical parents.

 

_Squib_ \- a non-magical person born to magical parents.

 

_Pureblood_ \- a witch or wizard born of a long line of magical people

 

_Half-blood_ \- a magical person born to a muggleborn and a pureblood or a muggle and a pureblood… etc.

 

_Hogwarts-_ the primary wizarding school in the UK. The students are divided up into four houses according to personality traits, _Gryffindor_ , _Slytherin_ , _Ravenclaw_ , and _Hufflepuff_.

 

_Gryffindor House-_ for the brave

 

_Slytherin House_ \- for the cunning and ambitious

 

_Ravenclaw House_ \- for the intelligent who lust after learning

 

_Hufflepuff_ \- for the hard-working and loyal

 

_Unforgivable Curses-_ There are three dark magic curses classed as Unforgivable. These curses carry a mandatory sentence of life in the British Wizarding prison, Azkaban. These curses include the Imperius, Cruciatus, and the Killing Curse.

 

_Imperius_ \- Incantation- _Imperio_. the mind control curse. This curse enables the caster to control another being’s actions.

 

_Cruciatus_ \- Incantation- _Crucio_. The torture curse. This curse causes the victim to suffer almost unbearable pain. Prolonged exposure causes irreparable nerve damage and insanity.

 

_Killing Curse_ \- Incantation- _Avada Kedavra_. Just what it sounds like. The victim dies instantly in a flash of green light. The only known survivor of this curse is Harry Potter, aka The Boy-Who-Lived. (While not spelled out, I would assume that Unforgiveables are punished by similar means in other countries, and that other countries have their own versions of Azkaban. For my purposes, because wizards hide in plain sight in the US, there are magic suppressors around certain federal prisons in the US... like Leavenworth. I'm also assuming that certain cells are slated for wizarding criminals, and the anti-magic wards are tripled on said cells.)

 

* * *

**Chapter 1:**

**The Little Boy in the Cupboard**

* * *

__
    
    
      _“ Alone in the dreary and pitiless street,
    With my torn old dress, and my bare, cold feet;
    All day I have wandered to and fro;
    Hungry and shiv’ring, and nowhere to go;
    The night’s coming on, in darkness and dread,
    And the chill sleet is beating upon my bare head.
    Oh, why does the wind blow upon me so wild?
    Is it because I am nobody’s child?”
    --Gussie Estabrook_
    

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

1830 ZULU

WEDNESDAY, 14 OCTOBER 1998

4 PRIVET DRIVE

LITTLE WHINGING, SURREY, UK

 

“Come here, _Freak_ ,” Petunia Dursley ordered, glaring at her four-year-old nephew.

 

Harry Potter gave her a fearful look and instantly obeyed, being careful not to jostle his hurt arm. “Yes, Aunt Pet'nia,” he said, almost inaudibly.

 

Petunia slapped him, leaving a red handprint on his face. “Vernon and I are going out,” she said. “We’ll be leaving you with Mrs. Figg—she’s been kind enough to keep your ungrateful hide while we’re gone. My precious Duddykins will be staying with the Polkisses. You are not to cause trouble with your _abnormal_ ways, is that clear?”

 

Harry nodded frantically. He was a bad boy. He knew it; the grown-ups said so and grown-ups didn’t lie, did they? He was a freak, an oddity, a _burden_. He didn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been told things like that, when he hadn’t been locked in the cupboard under the stairs at night. He didn’t remember a time when he’d actually had a family that loved him. He didn’t really even know his name; most of the time he thought his name actually _was_ ‘Freak’—that was what he was called most often, anyway.

 

Without warning, Aunt Petunia slapped him again, hard. Harry knew better than to make a sound, just as he knew better than to complain about how much his left arm hurt. If he complained, he knew that it wouldn’t take long for them to make him hurt worse. Thus, he made no protest nor sound when she grabbed his throbbing arm, yanked him over to his cupboard, and shoved him inside. “Get your stuff,” she hissed. “And don’t you dare say anything, is that clear?”

 

Silently, Harry nodded, then reached under his small, dirty camp bed to retrieve a pair of too-big, graying, frayed pants and a pair of pajamas in similar condition. He laid them gently on the stained, ripped crib mattress and gathered up his other change of clothing, which consisted of holey trousers that were at least five sizes too big and a worn t-shirt in similar condition. He wrapped the miserly items in his threadbare blanket before reaching for Dudley’s old trainers. Carefully, he pulled the laces as tightly as they could go so that the shoes would stay on. He tied them and tucked them into the tops of his shoes so he wouldn’t trip over them. Gathering up his blanket-wrapped bundle, he quietly left the cupboard, thankful that Aunt Petunia hadn’t locked him in.

 

Harry hugged the blanket to his chest. It was the only thing that was really his—the only thing that had never belonged to Dudley. At least, as far as he knew. It had “ _HJP_ ” sewn into the corner, and that didn’t fit Dudley. He examined the blanket, not wanting to look up lest he be accused of insolence and hit again. He rather thought that the initials were supposed to be his, though he didn’t know exactly what they stood for. The Dursleys rarely called him by name at all. He was ‘boy,’ he was ‘freak,’ rarely was he just ‘Harry.’ That fact alone made him doubt that ‘Harry’ was really his name at all.

 

Harry heard, rather than saw, his aunt approach and carefully hid a wince when she grabbed his left arm and yanked him towards the door. He trotted along behind her as fast as he could to make her stop pulling. He had plenty of finger-shaped bruises as it was—he didn’t need more. Without a word, she shoved him towards the car and climbed in herself. He tuned her out when she started scolding him; he was used to being told how worthless, useless, unwanted, ungrateful, stupid, ugly, and unloveable he was and didn’t want to hear it yet again.

 

It was a matter of minutes before he’d been shoved at the babysitter and ushered inside to sit on the couch. Harry accepted the photo album when it was pushed towards him and began looking through it obediently, looking at picture after picture of Mrs. Figg’s cats. He ignored the pain from his bruises, cuts, and the arm he was pretty sure was broken; it would do him no good to complain. As it was past supper time, he wasn’t surprised that she didn’t offer him anything to eat. Anyway, he was used to going without—the Dursleys didn’t like feeding him, either. Usually, his best chance for food was scraps nicked from bins; the Dursleys never checked the bins to make sure the stuff they threw out was still there. When he could sneak out, the neighbor's bins provided meals for him as well.

 

After what seemed like hours of mind numbing activity, Harry’s eyes started to drift shut, and he fell into a deep sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

2200 ZULU

WEDNESDAY, 14 OCTOBER 1998

15 WISTERIA WALK

LITTLE WHINGING, SURREY, UK

 

Arabella Figg swallowed hard as the story came across the local news on the telly. Vernon and Petunia Dursley were dead. Apparently, they’d been driving drunk and almost single-handedly managed to create a multi-car pile-up on the M25. Arabella scowled as she stood up, walked over to the fireplace, grabbed some floo powder, and threw it into the fireplace. “Wizarding Family and Child Protective Services,” she called into the green flames, then stuck her head into the fire.

 

The reception witch greeted her with a nod. “What may I assist you with?” she inquired.

 

“I need a case worker,” Arabella said tersely.

 

“Just a moment.” The reception witch murmured a short spell and a blue paper airplane took off. A few moments later, a pretty young witch dropped to her knees in front of the floo. “I need the child’s name and the problem,” she said immediately.

 

Arabella swallowed, hard. “Harry Potter,” she said. “His aunt and uncle died a few minutes ago in a muggle accident.”

 

“And you are?” the casewitch questioned.

 

“Arabella Figg,” the elderly squib said with a sigh. “I was assigned to watch the neighborhood for signs of Death Eater activity. I babysit for the Dursleys occasionally. Right now, the Boy-Who-Lived is asleep on my davenport.”

 

“If you’ll step back I’ll come through.”

 

Immediately, Arabella got up and stepped away from the fireplace. A scant two minutes later, the casewitch arrived, brushing soot off her robes. “Pardon my manners,” she said quietly. “I’m Amaryllis Wilson. Because of the circumstances around the Potters’ deaths, I don’t believe he was ever assigned a caseworker.”

 

Arabella just shrugged. She didn’t know whether he had a caseworker or not—Dumbledore had asked her to keep an eye on the neighborhood, and that was what she’d done. She’d never met James and Lily Potter, but she had to admit that their son was adorable, if a bit shy and quiet. “I can’t keep him,” she said. “I don’t watch him more than a few times a year, and even then, it’s just as a favor to Minerva.”

 

“Professor McGonagall?” Amaryllis questioned.

 

Arabella nodded. If she’d bothered to glance over at the couch, she would have seen a pair of bright green eyes watching her, and a single tear running down the child’s face. But she simply wasn’t looking. “He’s on the davenport,” she said. “If we’re not quiet, we’ll wake him.” At her words, Harry ducked down and shut his eyes, unseen by the adults.

 

Amaryllis walked quietly over to the couch, where Harry was curled up, catlike, and covered with his ragged blanket. His left arm was flung out, the sleeve of his too-large, worn-out jumper pushed up. His eyes were closed tightly, almost buttoned up, as if to shut out the world. The casewitch pulled up his sleeve a bit more and scowled at the finger-shaped bruises on the stick-like arm. “Have you really _looked_ at this child, Mrs. Figg?”

 

Arabella looked shocked. “He seemed fine when he came in,” she said quietly.

From the look on the casewitch’s face, Arabella knew that she’d made a mistake. Without a fuss, Amaryllis picked up the boy and his belongings and headed back to the fireplace. Juggling the child and his few items of clothing, she tossed some floo powder into the fireplace. After calling out her destination, she stepped into it and disappeared with a whoosh of green flames.

 

Arabella watched her go, a frown on her wizened visage. From the reaction, she’d done something wrong, but what? Was something wrong with the boy? She’d never seen anything from the Dursleys that indicated that the boy was being mistreated. Sure, he wore hand-me-downs, but many children did that. Sure, she'd seen the public announcements concerning child abuse, but he wasn't abused was he? And even if he was, was it really any of her business? It was a family matter, after all. Puzzled, she shuffled over to her favorite chair and sat down. Mr. Tibbles, her favorite cat, jumped lightly into her lap. Petting the cat, she pondered exactly why Amaryllis Wilson had glared at her so before her eyes slid shut and she fell into dreamland.

 

* * *

 

 

2230 ZULU

WEDNESDAY, 14 OCTOBER 1998

WIZARDING CHILD AND FAMILY PROTECTIVE SERVICES

SOMEWHERE IN LONDON, UK

 

Amaryllis stepped through the floo and strode into the waiting room. She settled the twice-orphaned Boy-Who-Lived more securely as she hurried towards one of the examination rooms. Child abuse, while not common in the wizarding world, did happen, and they had found it necessary to have a couple of small rooms equipped as mini-infirmaries in their department for occasions such as the one she had found little Harry in. It was much more common for them to have to deal with abused muggleborn children than wizarding children. In fact, most of the cases they dealt with weren't abuse cases at all; the department had originally been established to deal with children who had been orphaned by war and other unfortunate circumstances. Gently, she laid him on one of the small cots and covered him with a blanket. She smoothed his messy black hair away from his face before heading back to the reception witch. “Hannah, do we have a Healer on call today?” she asked. “I’ve got a four-year-old that needs a checkup at the very least.”

 

Hannah nodded. “Master Healer Smythe is the Healer on call,” she said.

 

Amaryllis inclined her head and headed back to Harry. He was only four, after all. It wouldn’t do to have him wake up all alone; he’d be frightened. She sat down in a chair beside his bed to wait. It seemed forever, but wasn’t really all that long before the Healer bustled in.

 

Master Healer Smythe pulled out his wand and muttered the incantation, carefully scanning the boy’s body. He scowled when he reached the boy’s arm, and his scowl deepened with every pass of his wand. When he finished, he tapped a nearby piece of parchment with his wand, then scanned it quickly. “Spiral fracture in his left arm,” he said. “Bruises, cuts, and abrasions, some of which are infected. He also is malnourished, there's a weakness in his eyes that I don't like, and he’s had broken bones before that weren’t healed properly.” Smythe broke it off and started chanting over Harry’s arm, doing a series of complex wand movements over it. Finally, he finished with a flourish. “He needs several potions,” he said quietly. “But after the orphanage fire last week, we’re out of almost all of them for young children and our potions master is on holiday.”

 

“Is there anyone who can make more?” Amaryllis inquired.

 

Master Healer Smythe grimaced. “Healing potions for children this young are notoriously difficult and complicated to brew,” he explained. “Master Snape from Hogwarts has been making a few potions for us, but I’m not sure if he’d have the time between his teaching schedule and the wolfsbane he’s supplying us with.”

 

Amaryllis scowled at him. “I remember Severus Snape from school,” she said. “The one I know will make the time. Now, are you going to firecall him or do I have to do it myself?”

 

Without a word, Master Healer Smythe left the room. Amaryllis poked her head out the door and smiled when she saw the flames in the fireplace turn green and heard the man call out what she assumed was the proper address. It wasn’t more than a few minutes when a tired-looking Professor Snape swept into the room, carrying a carpetbag in one hand. He offered a half-smile. “Amaryllis,” he said with a nod. “I understand that I’m needed to brew some potions for a four-year-old?”

 

Gently, Amaryllis turned Harry over. “His guardians just died. Good job, too; if they hadn’t, I’d be tempted to find them and use them to learn the Unforgiveables.”

 

Severus stepped closer and looked at the boy. “Diagnosis?” he asked distractedly.

Amaryllis handed him the parchment. He glanced at it and swore softly. He set the bag down and started digging into it, reaching in all the way up to his shoulder. “Considering who Smythe is, you’re lucky I was contacted,” he said. “The man was a death eater; he got off by claiming Imperius.”

 

Amarayllis snorted. That explained why the healer hadn’t even put bruise balm on the kid. “I may not know all that much about how potions masters work, but even I know that when emergencies arise, all holidays are cancelled. Oh, and Severus, I know you have your mediwizard certification as part of your Mastery--would you please do the recording spells, muggle style? It may be needed for later.”

 

Severus nodded. Quickly, he did the incantation and created muggle-style medical records on transfigured parchment and began the painstaking process of producing what would look like X-Rays to muggle officials. Once he was finished, pulled out a large container and unscrewed the cap. Gently, he removed the boy’s oversized, ragged clothes. Amaryllis stopped him with a gesture and snapped pictures of the bruises, before allowing him to continue.

 

 

He started rubbing bruise balm into the boy’s mottled skin. He was scowling, and his scowl deepened as he removed the child’s frayed, graying, and too big pants, which were held in place by a safety pin. “ _Merlin_ ,” he swore softly. It looked as if the boy had received more than one thoroughly professional beating over the past few weeks. Even the little boy’s privates were bruised. “Are you sure they’re dead?” he asked finally.

 

“Positive,” she responded. “Muggle car accident. Still, the records and the pictures may be needed when we find other relatives.”

 

“I hope their death was painful,” he growled.

 

Amaryllis smiled. “Me, too,” she said. “Saved us the galleons for a trial.”

 

Severus finished, turned the boy over, and started on his back, but not before Amaryllis took another picture. It was hard to find a spot where the child didn’t have bruises. Quickly, he dipped his hand back into the jar of salve and gently started to rub it in. After he finished, he cleansed his hands and began to treat the cuts and abrasions. “Muggleborn, I assume?” he asked quietly.

 

“Not exactly,” Amaryllis said. “Wizardborn, but living with Muggle relatives.”

 

Severus’s scowl deepened even more. “Wizarding orphans should never be placed with _Muggles_ ,” he sneered.

 

Amaryllis snorted. “Not all Muggles are bad, Severus.”

 

“Human beings fear what they do not understand,” he said matter-of-factly. “We had a muggleborn child come to Hogwarts this year whose maternal grandmother had her exorcised repeatedly trying to get rid of her magic.”

 

“Which is why we have this department,” Amaryllis said dryly.

 

Severus turned the boy over again, wiped his hands, and felt the boy’s forehead. Pushing up his bangs, Amaryllis wasn’t surprised when the famous scar came into view. He stiffened a bit and glared at the sleeping child.

 

“He’s not James Potter,” Amaryllis said quickly. She well knew of the enmity between the two in school; everyone did. “Severus, he’s an abused little boy… Just remember that he’s Lily’s son, too; your crush on her was one of the worst-kept secrets in school.”

 

Severus snorted. “Damn Ravenclaws,” he muttered. “If I’d had the courage at the time to ask her out before _Potter_ got his hands on her, he might’ve been my son—I would have never allowed him to be sent to live with _Muggles_.”

 

“I would imagine not,” she said dryly. “Just remember that he’s Lily’s little boy—“

 

“Got it,” he said tersely. “I’ll need to get a bit of his blood to personalize potions for him.” Severus pulled out a tiny vial, put the top against the child’s skin, and tapped it with his wand. Immediately, it filled with blood. He tapped it again, capped it, and put it in his pocket.

 

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Amaryllis asked nervously.

 

“I'll make sure that whatever is leftover is destroyed,” he said calmly. “We should take care of his vaccinations as well; he probably hasn’t had any for wizarding diseases since his parents died.” Severus pulled a bone-healing potion from his bag and rubbed it into Harry’s left arm. “I’ll start on his potions—I should have them finished in a couple of days.”

 

“Thank you, Severus,” Amaryllis said quietly. “Would you brew a _familias_ potion as well? We need to check for blood relatives before we consider putting him up for adoption.”

 

The potions master nodded curtly and left the room. Amaryllis spelled some extra pajamas onto Harry and pulled the blankets up. Dimming the lights with a whispered word, she left the room, intent on finding a temporary placement for him until things could be resolved. Perhaps the Weasleys wouldn’t mind another child for a few weeks; they’d done it before…

 

* * *

 

 

2355 ZULU

WEDNESDAY, 14 OCTOBER 1998

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

UNPLOTTABLE LOCATION, SCOTLAND, UK

 

Severus stepped out of the fireplace and left his quarters, making sure to lock them behind him. He hurried up to the Headmaster’s office; Dumbledore had to know about the Potter boy. While the child had been ‘asleep’—personally, Severus thought the kid had been faking—he hadn't been able to get a good feel for the boy's personality; he certainly wasn’t what he’d been expecting. He had expected a spoilt, pampered child to show up at Hogwarts in a few years. Merlin knows he might’ve spoilt the child if he had the care of him.

 

After all, between the boy and his mother, they’d managed to banish the bane of Severus’s life—the Dark Lord. “Munchies,” he said, giving the password, and the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster’s office slid aside.

 

Quickly, Severus hurried up the spiral staircase, not waiting for it to move, and entered the office without knocking. “Headmaster!” he said.

 

Dumbledore looked up, a smile gracing his kindly old face. “What happened, Severus?” the man asked.

 

“You got the message that I was called to WFCPS?” he asked.

 

Dumbledore nodded. “I assume it had to do with needing potions for a child,” he said.

 

Severus scowled. “Of course it did! But the child in question is Harry Potter.”

 

Dumbledore sat up straighter. “What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Why is the boy at WFCPS?”

 

Before Severus could answer, an alarm sounded from one of the whirling silver instruments on a shelf near Dumbeldore’s desk. The old man swore creatively. “The wards have fallen on Harry Potter’s residence,” he said.

 

“Of course they have,” Severus growled. “The boy’s guardians died a few hours ago, and Potter is in need of potions to combat long-term abuse and neglect at their hands.” He glared at Dumbledore. “I’ve heard Minerva say more than once that she warned you about them! Come to think of it, Lily mentioned the fact that her sister hated her and anything to do with magic!”

 

A pained look crossed Dumbledore’s face. Severus knew that it had to be because the placement of Harry Potter with the _muggles_ had been a constant source of contention between the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall. He crossed his arms over his chest before continuing. “I’ve also been asked to provide a _familias_ potion so they can check for other blood relations.”

 

“There are none,” Dumbledore said firmly. “James was the last of his line, and Lily had no others as well.”

 

Severus snorted. It was true that he’d had a major crush on Lily Evans whilst at school, but he’d also been her best friend. “Then why was she corresponding with her cousin?” he inquired silkily. "And why did he come and stay with her family when we were twelve?"

 

Dumbledore’s head shot up. “A cousin?”

 

For a moment, Severus savored the flummoxed look on the man’s face. It was always fun to watch when Dumbledore was surprised because it didn’t happen often. “Yes, a cousin. I don’t recall his name. It's been too long, and I think afterwards they exchanged a letter a year, if that.”

 

“Thank you, Severus,” Dumbledore said after a few minutes. “We shall have to do a better job investigating this cousin than we did with the Dursleys.”

 

Taking that as a dismissal, Severus inclined his head and left the office, heading towards his personal laboratory to begin brewing. He was naturally an insomniac, so a few more hours beginning potions wouldn’t hurt him at all.

 

* * *

 

 

_TBC..._

 


	2. The Call

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**Chapter 2:**

**The Call**

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 
    
    
      _"Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid... He is the hero, he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor, by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world."_
    

_-Raymond Chandler_ _\- from_ _**The Simple Art of Murder** _ _(November 1945, The Atlantic Monthly)_ _._

 

~*~*~*~

 

1445 ZULU

THURSDAY, 15 OCTOBER 1998

JAG HEADQUARTERS

FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA, USA

 

Lieutenant Commander Harmon Rabb sat at his desk and glared at the bane of his existence--paperwork. He loved investigations. He loved trying cases. What he really hated, however, was the grunt work of filling out form after form afterwards. Just as he picked up one and started filling in the form on top of his pile, the phone rang. 'Saved!' he thought, as he picked it up.

 

"Rabb," he said cheerfully. Phone calls were so much better than paperwork.

 

"Harmon," a familiar voice said.

 

Shit. It was his grandmother, and she never called him at the office unless it was an emergency. "Grandma, what's wrong?" he asked. "Are you okay? Did something happen at the farm?"

 

"Calm down, Harmon," Grandma ordered. "I'm fine, there's nothing wrong here, but we do have a problem."

 

Harm started flipping the pen he was holding over and over in his fingers. "What is it?" he asked. "How can I help?"

 

"Remember your cousins, Lily and Petunia, in England?" she asked.

 

"Yeah… Didn't Lily die about three years ago?"

 

"Yes, she did," Grandma said. "Petunia just died as well, and her son and Lily's are both orphaned now. We're the last family that Lily's son has left."

 

Harm bit his lip. He was silent for a few minutes, processing the information. "Are they okay?” he asked finally.

 

"They didn't say about Petunia's son," Grandma admitted. "But it looks like Petunia and Vernon were abusing the other one. They want us to take him, honey."

 

Harm didn't even have to think about it; there was no way in hell that any relative of his would be left to the vagaries of a foster care system. "I need more information," he said immediately. "I'm sure I can get leave, but I need to know where to go."

 

Grandma breathed a sigh of relief. "I'd hoped you'd say that, Harmon," she said. "I'd take him, but he's only four, and I'm getting on in years--"

 

"I wouldn't leave him," Harm said quietly. "We're family." If there was one thing he'd learned growing up, it was that families stuck together. His grandma had always been there for him, even after his father had gone MIA, his mother had gotten him declared dead, and married Frank. What mattered now was that there was an abused four-year-old who was family, and who needed him.

 

Grandma interrupted his thoughts. "Call me when you have flight information," she said. "I'll let them know where to find you."

 

"Them?" he questioned.

 

Harm felt, rather than heard her sigh of exasperation. "Remember the stories about magic I used to tell you when you were little?" she asked.

 

"Yes…" he said cautiously. "But they were just stories, weren't they?"

 

"No, Harmon, they weren't," she said. "My twin sister and I are what's known as squibs--non-magical children born in a magical family. Lily was, literally, a witch because my sister and her daughter both married other squibs. Her son is most likely a wizard, too, because both his father and mother were magical. Lily had the McKinnon green eyes, greener than yours."

 

Belatedly, Harm remembered the story--the green-eyed children in his grandmother's family always had magic, and the brighter the green, the stronger the magic. Family legend had it that centuries ago, before they had disappeared, Sidhe had married into the family. Thus, every child born with beryl-green eyes was a powerful magician. He'd thought it was simply a family myth. After all, magic wasn't real… But it was. His grandmother was saner than he was and she never, ever lied. "I'll make arrangements," he said finally, choosing not to remind her that his eyes weren't _always_ green. "And I'll call you as soon as I know my flight number. London, right?"

 

"Yes. Good luck, love. Bring him home safely. I'll call Trish and let her know that you're bringing home a grandson for her to spoil."

 

"I will, Grandma," he said. "Call me if you need anything." Harm hung up the phone and left his office, walking quickly across the bullpen to the Admiral's office.

 

He stopped in front of the yeoman’s desk. “Tiner, is the Admiral available?” he asked.

 

Tiner pressed the call button. “Admiral, Commander Rabb is here to see you.”

 

“Send him in,” the Admiral’s voice said.

 

Harm opened the door, walked in, and came to attention in front of the Admiral’s desk.

 

“At ease,” the Admiral said. “Have a seat, Commander.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” Harm said as he obeyed.

 

“Now, since you don’t have paperwork with you,” the Admiral said with a half-smile, “I’m assuming that this is about something else.”

 

Harm leaned forward a bit. “I need to take some emergency family leave, sir,” he said.

 

“Are your mother and grandmother all right?” Admiral Chegwidden asked, leaning back in his chair.

 

“They’re fine, sir,” Harm said. “But I just got a call from my grandmother, and my four-year-old cousin has been orphaned for the second time.”

 

“I wasn’t aware that your father had any siblings, Commander,” Admiral Chegwidden said.

 

“I’m not sure of the exact relationship,” Harm admitted. “He’s not a first cousin—but Grandma and I are the last family he has left. We’ve been contacted by social services, and I need to go to London to get him.”

 

Admiral Chegwidden leaned forward. “Have you thought this through, Harm?” he asked quietly.

 

“Yes and no, sir,” he said. “I know that this will change my life, but how much, I’m not yet sure.”

 

Admiral Chegwidden was silent for a few minutes. “Have you thought of where you’re going to live?” he asked. “I don’t imagine that your loft would work well for a four-year-old.”

 

Inwardly, Harm winced. There simply wasn’t enough room in his loft for a child, and the neighborhood wouldn’t be a great place to raise one. “I hadn’t thought of that, Admiral,” he admitted."To be fair, I just got off the phone."

 

The Admiral opened his desk, pulled out some papers, and handed them over. “Sign these,” he said. “I’ll get Harriet to help organize volunteers to move your things into base housing while you’re gone. You have two weeks leave starting tomorrow.” He hit the call button on his phone. “Tiner, book the Commander the next available flight to Heathrow and a rental car.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” Harm said.

 

Admiral Chegwidden inclined his head. “Distribute your open cases, and take your outstanding paperwork with you,” he ordered.

 

Harm stood and came to attention. “Thank you, sir.”

 

“Dismissed.”

 

Harm executed a perfect turn and headed out of the Admiral’s office, only stopping to give Tiner his credit card. “Thank you, Petty Officer,” he said. "This is personal, so I'm paying for it."

 

Tiner smiled. “Not a problem, Commander.”

 

Harm hurried to his office and grabbed a stack of open files, then went into the bullpen. Quickly, he crossed it and headed to Mac’s office. He knocked once on the doorframe and went inside. “Hey, Mac,” he said with a grin. “Think you can take some of my open cases for me?”

 

Major Sarah Mackenzie looked up at him with concern. “What’s wrong?” she asked immediately.

 

“My cousin just died, and it seems I’ve been left an inheritance that I need to fly into London to pick up,” he replied.

 

Mac raised an eyebrow. “Can’t it just be sent?’ she asked.

 

Harm shook his head. “I’m sure there’s plenty of paperwork to fill out; I inherited a four-year-old boy.” He flashed her his best smile. “He’ll be needing his Aunt Sarah when I bring him home, so I’m hoping that you’ll still want to spend time with me.”

 

Mac rolled her eyes. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? Are you sure you want to do it?”

 

“Am I ready? Hell, no.” Harm gave her an earnest look. “Mac, I don’t see any other choice. I mean, I can’t let him be subject to the whims of the British foster care system. At four, what chance would he have of being adopted or having any kind of future?”

 

“Not a lot,” Mac admitted. “I just worry about you. How do you know that this isn’t just another obsession? I mean, you just got closure on your father’s death…”

 

Harm leaned against the door, his mind racing. How could he explain? “I hope so,” he said finally. “If I’m lucky, he’ll be an obsession that’ll last for, oh, twenty years or so.”

 

Mac smiled, and Harm’s whole world lit up. He loved that smile. “If you’re sure. I mean, having a child will bring a lot of changes to your life, Harmon,” she said.

 

Harm dipped his head. “I know,” he said. “Hey, wanna go halves on a kid? We’ll be getting him a bit older than most, but Grandma said that he’s been abused, so he’ll need all the love we can give him!”

 

Mac laughed. “I’ll think about it,” she promised. “How about I’ll be Aunt Sarah for now… Daddy?”

 

A wide grin spread over Harm’s face. “I like that,” he confided. “I like it a lot… but I want to wait until he calls me that himself.”

 

“What’s his name?” she asked.

 

Harm bit his lip. “You know, I didn’t ask,” he admitted. “His mother’s name was Lily Evans… she and her husband died about three years ago. He was living with his aunt, Petunia Evans. She married an executive for some drill company, but I don’t remember his name. They died a few days ago.”

 

“Poor kid,” Mac said quietly. “Just can’t get a break can he? Twice orphaned and abused, too.”

 

“Yeah. Anyway, the Admiral’s working on getting me into base housing until I can find a house, so I wanted to know if you could take the perishables that’re in my fridge? And let people into my apartment?”

 

Mac nodded. “Sure. I’ve got time for two or three of those cases, too, and if you give me your credit card, I’ll go to the Exchange and pick out some furniture for the kid’s bedroom.”

 

“Thanks,” he said. Harm handed her three of the files, then, juggling the rest, reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and grabbed another credit card to give her. “I’ll give Imes two of these files, and the rest to Mattoni.”

 

Mac reached out and grabbed his hand. “Call me when you get to London,” she said.

 

Harm nodded and headed out into the bullpen. He had to get rid of his files and get home to pack a seabag. There was much to do before he went to pick up his child. He had no doubts that his cousin would soon become his son; he never did anything by half measures, and this wouldn’t be an exception.

 

~*~*~*~

 

1230 ZULU

THURSDAY, 15 OCTOBER 1998

THE BURROW

OUTSIDE OTTERY SAINT CATCHPOLE

DEVON, UK

 

Harry sat with his back to the corner and his skinny little arms wrapped around his legs. The grown-ups had been a lot nicer than his aunt and uncle, but he knew that it was only a matter of time before they started hating him, too. He just wasn't lovable enough for that not to happen. He rocked back and forth for a few minutes before one of the other children interrupted him.

 

“Hi, baby,” she said. The little girl smiled brightly at him and patted his hair.

 

Harry flinched away. Dudley had only ever touched him to hurt him and the rest of the Dursleys had been like minded. “I’m not a baby,” he whispered.

 

“I’m Ginny,” she said. “And you’re _mine_.”

 

Harry frowned at her. “Am not,” he said.

 

Ginny just smiled at him and patted his hair again. “Pretty,” she said.

 

Harry glared at her. “Am not,” he said again.

 

A little boy wandered over, carrying a bright red ball. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Ronnie.” He handed the ball he was carrying to Harry. “Want to come play?”

 

Harry accepted the ball and stood up. Maybe it would be all right if he played? Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon weren’t there to punish him, and the ball didn’t belong to Dudley. And Ronnie _wanted_ him to play. Mentally, he shrugged. Even if he got punished for it, he wanted to. “All right,” he whispered.

 

Ronnie grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the back door.

 

“Stop!” Ginny demanded. “My baby!” she insisted.

 

Ronnie stopped, turned around, and pulled a face at her. “Not. He’s not a baby, _you_ are!”

 

“Am not!” Ginny retorted.

 

Harry wanted to ask why Ginny wasn't allowed to play, too, but the oft-repeated phrase of, 'Don't ask questions!' stopped him. Questions weren't allowed. Neither was playing, really, and he knew he'd catch it for daring to play with the red-headed children.

 

“Let's play,” Ronnie said, obviously ignoring his sister. He pulled Harry outside, grabbed the ball, and tossed it towards Harry.

 

Harry caught the ball, barely, and bounced it back. They bounced it back and forth for a bit, with Ginny looking on. He missed it as two other red haired boys walked out, identical in every way.

 

“Oh, Ronniekins!” one of them called cheerfully.

 

“Those're my brothers,” Ron said. “Fred and George are twins.”

 

Harry simply nodded.

 

The twins bounded over. “I'm Fred,” the one on the left said.

 

“I'm George,” the other said.

 

“And you must be Harrykins!” they said together.

 

“Mummy said that you're to stay with us for a bit,” George said.

 

“She also said we're not to prank him,” Fred grumbled.

 

Harry slowly scooted behind Ronnie. He wasn't sure he liked these kids. Maybe the twins were like Dudley and would hit him and laugh about it. Before anyone could say anything else, a lady came to the door and called them in for lunch. He'd seen her before, when the other lady who'd taken him from Mrs. Figg's house brought him there, but he hadn't been looking at her; he'd been looking for someplace out of the way to hide.

  
  


Slowly, Harry made his way inside with the other children. Whilst they crowded around the table, he sat down on the floor beside it. He wasn’t allowed on furniture. The lady simply picked him up and put him in a chair near the other children.

  
  


“Why were you sitting on the floor, Harry?” she asked,

  
  


Harry eyed her warily. “I’m not allowed...” he began.

  
  


“To sit on the furniture?” she questioned, her eyes narrowed in anger. "You are, here, Harry. Sit."

  
  


Harry flinched back violently and nodded. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had always claimed he’d ruin it. The only time he’d ever touched furniture was to clean it. He folded his hands into his lap, expecting her to change her mind about him sitting in the chair and hit him at any moment.

  
  


Instead of yelling or hitting him like he expected, the lady simply sighed, placed a plate in front of him, and started filling it with food. The other children were helping themselves, with the older ones helping the younger. A boy he’d never seen before came trooping in, lugging a thick, leather-bound book. He set it down on a vacant chair and began helping Ginny get something to eat. Harry stared at the plate in amazement. He’d never had so much food given to him before. Usually, he got whatever his family didn’t want, if that.

  
  


After the lady had moved away from him, Harry tentatively reached for the sandwich she’d put on his plate. He nibbled on it. He couldn’t be too careful. Sure, they were feeding him _now_ , but he knew better than to think it would last. He ate a few bites more and drank a few sips of the funny juice in the cup before he was full.

  
  


Harry glanced up and down the table. When he was satisfied that nobody was looking, he took the remains of his sandwich and tucked it into the pocket of his overlarge trousers. A few minutes later, a couple of carrot sticks followed the sandwich into his pocket. He slid down from his chair, picked up his plate and glass, and carried them to the sink. He laid the dishes in it carefully so they wouldn't get broken and waited, staring at the ground, for everyone else to finish.

  
  


“Harry, dear,” the lady said. “Why are you standing by the sink?”

  
  


“So that I can do the washing up.” Harry replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, which it was, at least to him. He’d been cooking simple things and cleaning up afterwards for a little over a year now.

  
  


“That’s a grown-up job,” the lady said. “You’re too little to worry about doing the washing up, Harry. Go play.”

  
  


For a moment, Harry wanted to object. He _wasn’t_ too little for _anything_! Better sense, however, prevailed. Instead, he headed back to the corner he’d staked out and sat down there, tucking his hands underneath himself in an unconscious prisoner-of-war position. He didn’t know what to make of these people, he really didn’t. They didn’t seem to be anything like his family, that was for sure. Briefly, he wondered when he’d be sent back home.

  
  


From Miss Wilson’s reaction when she saw his bruises, he figured that was the reason why he wasn’t on Privet Drive anymore. Harry drew his knees up, and rested his chin on them. Nobody had ever cared before, so he really didn’t see why they’d care now. He knew that some of the neighbors had seen at least some of his bruises, but nobody had ever said anything. It was only a matter of time before they sent him back, or sent him to an orphanage like Uncle Vernon had always said he wanted to do. Maybe, if he were lucky, what Aunt Petunia always wished for would come true--mayhap the gypsies would come and take him away.

  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  


1600 ZULU

THURSDAY, 15 OCTOBER 1998

NORTH OF UNION STATION

WASHINGTON, DC USA

  
  


Harm folded another pair of worn jeans and stashed them in his seabag. He was almost ready to go, with time to spare. His flight didn’t leave until 1545 local time*, so he had hours before he needed to be at the airport. He hurried to the bathroom, grabbed his shaving kit, and packed it as well. He thought he had everything: money, an overseas calling card, his ticket, passport, casual clothes, a suit for the funeral and for the judge he was sure he'd have to see, toiletries... He snapped his fingers. He’d forgotten to ask Mac if she’d give him a ride to the airport. There was no way in hell he’d leave his classic Corvette in long-term parking there. It’d be gone long before he got back. As it was, he was planning on leaving it in a locked garage so it wouldn't be stolen while he was gone.

  
  


Harm zipped up the duffle bag and carried it and his garment bag into the living room and set it down before he picked up the phone. He dialed her office number and waited. “Judge Advocate General’s office, this is Major Mackenzie speaking,” he heard her say.

  
  


“Mac,” he said. “Um, there’s something I forgot to ask you before I left JAG.”

  
  


“What is it, Flyboy?” she asked.

  
  


He could hear the amusement in her voice. “My flight leaves at 2145,” he said. “I was wondering if you could secure early and give me a lift to the airport.”

  
  


“Sure,” she said.

  
  


“Thanks, Ninja Girl,” he said.

  
  


“Did you find out what your cousin’s name is?” she inquired.

  
  


“Shit,” he swore softly.

  
  


“Harmon Rabb!” she said. “If you’re going to have a kid around, you need to watch your language!”

  
  


“Sorry,” he said, feeling embarrassed. He really didn’t think he cussed that often, but she was right. He’d always watched his mouth when he was around his godson, Josh, but he’d gotten out of the habit since the boy’s mother, Annie, had cut off contact after the Tiger Cruise incident. It hadn't been _his_ fault that terrorists had taken them all hostage, and he was sorry about lying to her and encouraging Josh to do the same, but there was nothing he could say that would make Annie change her mind. Now that he was going to be a father, he really needed to clean up his language again. “I’ll try and do better,” he promised.

  
  


Mac snorted. “You’ll do better than try unless you want to spend a lot of time washing a little mouth out with soap.”

  
  


“Perish the thought,” he said wryly. “I’d better talk to Grandma to find out the kid’s name. Besides, I’m pretty sure that my mom and Frank will come out when they hear the news, and she said she was calling them.”

  
  


“Give them my number,” Mac ordered. “The Admiral will be giving me keys to your new house, and I’ve already got keys to your loft, so I can let them in.”

  
  


“Thank you,” he said. “I’d like to be at the airport an hour early or so...”

  
  


“I’ll be there to pick you up in a few hours,” she promised. “And call me before you come home with your flight time so that I can pick the two of you up.”

 

As they exchanged their goodbyes, Harm was already thinking of calling Grandma Sarah. As soon as he hung up, he dialed another familiar number, shifting from foot to foot as it rang. “Grandma!” he said when somebody picked up.

  
  


“Harmon,” she replied. “I didn’t expect you to call me, love.”

  
  


“Um, well, I kind of forgot to ask, Grandma... What’s the kid’s name?”

  
  


“Harry James, I think,” she said. “I'm not sure--'Harry' is a nickname, after all. Harm, do you remember Lieutenant Bear?”

  
  


Harm smiled. Lieutenant Bear had been his constant childhood companion; his dad had sent him from overseas, and Grandma had made a uniform for him. “Of course I do,” he said.

  
  


“Bring Harry his own,” she ordered. “This one can be Lieutenant Commander Bear.”

  
  


Harm snorted. “And as I get promoted, so does the bear?” he asked wryly.

  
  


“How did you guess?” she responded.

  
  


Harm laughed. “I’ll pick up a bear,” he promised. “I can’t guarantee a uniform, though.”

  
  


“I’ll make a whole set if you call me with measurements,” Grandma promised. “Call me when you’re coming home, and I’ll come down to meet my great-grandson and give at least one to him.”

  
  


“Grandma, you don’t have to come all the way down here--” Harm began.

  
  


“Harmon James Rabb Junior! Are you trying to tell your Grandmother--”

  
  


“No, Grandma, I’m not,” he interrupted hastily. Even now, he knew it wasn’t wise to cross her. Even his mother did her best to comply with the Rabb matriarch’s wishes. “You have Mac’s number?” he asked.

  
  


“Of course, love,” she said. “You gave it to me in case of an emergency when you were out of town.”

  
  


“Give it to Mom and Frank?” Harm requested.

  
  


“I will,” she promised.

  
  


“I’m on Delta flight 6703 into Heathrow, and I should be landing at 0715 tomorrow, their time.” he said.

  
  


“I’ll let them know when to come and get you,” Grandma said. “Bring that baby home safe.”

  
  


“I will.”

  
  


As soon as the conversation ended, and he hung up the phone, Harm grabbed his keys and headed for the door. He knew that Mac would take care of the necessary furniture, but it wouldn’t hurt to pick up a few toys other than a bear... Harry was only four, after all and he’d need something to play with. After he got home, they could go out and buy some books, too. It would be absolutely necessary, as he didn’t own a television, and had no desire to get one.

  
  


Realistically, Harm knew that might change, but for now, he wasn’t really willing to change it. Heaven knew what changes bringing Harry home would make, but he refused to leave him to fend for himself in Britain. Quickly, he strode to the door, went out, and locked it behind him. After his father had gone MIA, his childhood had been a little lonely, but he was determined to share the best parts of it with his new son, and that included the bear. While it would be a different bear than the one he’d owned, it would be a link to his past that Harry would have.

  
  


Harm bypassed the ancient elevator and hurried downstairs to the 'vette. As he folded his long frame into it, his mind started wandering to all the things he was sure that Harry would need. After all, there wasn’t much that Harry could bring with him from Britain...

  
  


~*~*~*~

 

_TBC..._

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**Chapter 3:**

**First Impressions**

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

  
  


_"Creating a family in this turbulent world is an act of faith, a wager that against all odds there will be a future, that love can last, that the heart can triumph against all adversities and even against the grinding wheel of time."_

_\--Dean Koontz, "From the Corner of His Eye"_

  
  


~*~*~*~

0800 ZULU

WEDNESDAY, 14 OCTOBER 1998

HEATHROW AIRPORT

LONDON, UK

  
  


Harm walked towards a woman who was holding a sign with his name on it. He was tired. He never slept well on planes; he supposed it was because every instinct he had told him that he was supposed to be flying it, rather than riding in it. He shifted the teddy bear he was holding into the crook of his left arm, his briefcase to his left hand, and held out his right hand out towards her when he reached the woman with the sign. “Harmon Rabb,” he said. His seabag started to slip, and he grabbed it before it could fall. Somewhere in his tired brain it registered that the woman was at least passably pretty. Her shiny, light brown hair was cut into a long bob that she wore tucked behind her ears. She had gray eyes and a dusting of freckles over her nose.

  
  


She smiled at him, shook his outstretched hand, then folded the sign up and stuck it in her pocket. It was a large sign that should never have fit... yet it did. “Amaryllis Wilson. I have a ministry car waiting for us,” she said.

  
  


“I’ve got a rental car reserved, Ms. Wilson,” he said quietly. “Thank you, but I would much rather have my own way to get around.”

  
  


She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I’m assuming you want to meet Harry?” she asked. "I'll come back for the ministry car, later."

  
  


Harm grinned. “I can’t wait,” he said cheerfully. They hurried towards the rental place and picked up his car. As soon as he had stashed his luggage in the trunk and they were inside, she gave him some directions to a place called The Leaky Cauldron.

  
  


“How do you feel about magic, Mr. Rabb?” she asked quickly.

  
  


“I don’t know much about it, ma'am” he admitted frankly. “All I know are the family stories, but I always thought that they were fairy tales, to be truthful. My grandmother said once that I should have some magic, because I have green eyes, but I never received anything about it, so I don’t really think I do.”

  
  


“We can get that tested,” Ms. Wilson offered. “I’m Harry’s casewitch, and we’ll be transferring his case to your local office when you take him home.”

  
  


Harm nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. “Makes sense to me, ma'am,” he said. “I know there must be some concern--after all, you’re giving an abused four-year-old to a bachelor--but I can assure you that Harry will be safe with me.”

  
  


"What sort of experience do you have?" she asked.

  
  


"Not much, ma'am," Harm admitted. "I've dealt with a few abused children during the course of my duties, but not for any long periods of time. I have a godson who's a bit older, but I've never taken care of him on a day-to-day basis." He shot her a nervous smile. "I have about as much experience as any first-time parent."

  
  


Ms. Wilson pointed towards a parking space. "You can park there," she said.

  
  


Obediently, Harm pulled into the parking space. As he climbed out of the small car, he noticed a stick in her hand as she tapped it on the car while muttering a few words of what sounded like Latin. “There!” she said after she finished. “Muggles won’t notice the car while it's parked, and I’ve put some anti-theft charms on it as well.”

  
  


Harm wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Okay,” he said slowly. “What now?”

  
  


Ms. Wilson simply smiled “We need to be in the magical section in London,” she said quietly. “It’s the easiest way to go to The Burrow.”

  
  


Not knowing exactly what, “The Burrow” was, Harm simply nodded, figuring that it was a place or something. “Is that where Harry is?” he asked quietly.

  
  


Ms. Wilson nodded. “The Weasleys sometimes handle short-term foster care for us,” she explained with a smile. “They live in Devon, so the fastest way to get there would be either the Floo network, or side-along apparation.”

  
  


Deciding not to ask exactly what the ‘Floo Network’ and ‘side-along apparation’ were, Harm followed the casewitch, still holding Harry’s new toy. When he caught sight of the peeling sign and the dingy storefront, he smiled. “So ‘The Leaky Cauldron’ is a pub?” he asked.

  
  


Ms. Wilson chuckled. “Well, that answers the question of your magic. My guess is that you’re not much above a squib, which is why you didn’t get a letter. Most likely, if you marry a woman with magic in her blood, your children will be witches and wizards.”

  
  


“So Muggles can’t see it?” Harm questioned. He refused to think about her last comment. After Norfolk, he'd started to realize that there was only one person he could see being his wife... and he wasn't really sure it would work. And if he and Mac tried for something more and he lost her, well, that was one thing he was sure of--he never wanted to lose her, ever.

  
  


“I understand that one occasionally wanders in,” she replied. “But no, they can’t see it.”

  
  


Harm simply nodded and followed her into the pub. He looked around with interest, absently noting that it was lit by candles and the fireplace more than anything. He watched as a spoon stirred a bowl of soup by itself, and a young woman, a witch, he supposed, made her knife waltz around a table with her fork.

  
  


Ms. Wilson stopped in front of the counter, and smiled at the old, toothless man behind it. “Tom,” she began, “Mr. Rabb will probably require a room, as well a bed for his four-year-old cousin.” She looked back at Harm. “If that’s all right with you.”

  
  


Harm simply nodded. “That’s fine.”

  
  


The old man pushed over a book, dipped a quill into a nearby ink pot, and handed it to Harm. He eyed it suspiciously before he took it and carefully signed his name. “I’ll have to exchange some American money before I can pay you,” he said.

  
  


Tom waved it off. “I’ll run you a tab. Is there anything I can get for you?”

  
  


“Is there a bank near here?” Harm asked.

  
  


Tom glanced at Ms. Wilson. “You will show him the Alley?”

  
  


She nodded. “He’ll need some galleons, so yes.”

  
  


“Galleons?” Harm questioned.

  
  


“Wizarding money,” she replied. “We use it in the States, too. Wizarding money runs on a gold standard--there are seventeen silver sickles in a gold galleon and twenty-nine bronze knuts to a sickle.”

  
  


“And I’ll need to pay for the room with that, I assume?” he asked.

  
  


She just smiled. “Put your arm around my waist, please,” she said. “We’ll take the Knight Bus back, if that’s all right with you.”

  
  


Harm shrugged. He didn’t know what that was, either. As he put his arm around the casewitch’s waist, he decided to just pretend he was in a completely foreign country, like Russia, with strange customs and even stranger people, despite the common language. It would be easier that way.

  
  


Ms. Wilson did... something, and it felt as if he'd been squeezed through a too-small tube, then hurled from the end of it. Harm stumbled and barely managed to keep his feet. Quickly, he switched his hold on the bear to his other arm; it wouldn't do to damage Harry's present by maintaining a death grip on it.

  
  


Harm stopped short when he saw the... he wasn't sure if he dared call it a house. Frankly, it looked like a traditional English country cottage that might've been designed by Frank Lloyd Wright while on a bad acid trip. It completely defied all the rules of engineering as he knew them, most likely broke all the building codes ever written, and, to top it all off, shattered some of the laws of physics. Harm wasn't exactly sure what was keeping it from succumbing to gravity. It was four stories tall to begin with, but it had random bits attached to it on the upper levels that looked as if they might fall off at any moment. The foundation was probably sound, he supposed, but it was the rooms that were sticking out of it that had him worried. He wouldn't want to walk under them, that was for sure.

  
  


He hurried to catch up to Ms. Wilson as she calmly walked up the pebbled path and knocked on the battered wooden door. It took a few minutes before it was answered by a plump woman with disheveled red curly hair that had been pinned up. She was wearing a flowered apron over some sort of shabby-looking long robes, and had a stick similar to the one he'd seen Ms. Wilson use poking carelessly out of a pocket.

  
  


“Amaryllis,” the woman said with a kind smile. “Won't you come in? And who is this with you?” She ushered them into an old-fashioned room that seemed to be a parlor combined with a library and motioned for them to sit down on the horsehair sofa.

  
  


Harm sat down gingerly and tried not to slide off the slick surface. He almost caught himself fiddling with the antimacassar on the arm of the couch, but stopped and clasped his hands gently around Harry's bear instead. He glanced around, taking in the lace curtains, candles, shelves stuffed with battered books, some small desks in one corner, and the old portraits on the walls, searching for something to look at. It was then that he noticed that the portraits were _moving_! Deciding not to dwell on it, he moved on. The mantle had a piece of white tatted lace spread over it, which, in turn, had several framed photographs of children, mostly with red hair like the woman's, scattered across it.

  
  


The back and arms of the sofa he and the casewitch were occupying had antimacassars on them, as did the backs and arms of the armchairs and the other couch. To be short, it looked like something straight out of the last century. “Mr. Rabb?”

  
  


Harm looked up. “Huh? Oh, sorry,” he smiled sheepishly. “It's been a long day.”

  
  


“I understand,” the red head offered sympathetically. “International portkeys can be draining.”

  
  


Harm shook his head slowly. “I'm afraid I don't know what a portkey _is_ , ma'am,” he said. “Before yesterday, I think it was, I thought that magic, wizards, and the wizarding world were fairy tales.” He spread his hands. “I caught the first flight out from Washington and spent the last ten hours on an airplane to get here.”

  
  


The woman's eyes widened. “I see,” she said.

  
  


Before she could say anything more, Ms. Wilson interrupted. “Mr. Rabb,” she began, “This is Molly Weasley. Molly, this is Harmon Rabb.”

  
  


Harm leaned forward and held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, ma'am,” he said politely.

  
  


“Call me Molly,” she said as she shook the proffered hand. “I'm sure that Amaryllis has been over this, but what exactly do you do for a living, Mr. Rabb?”

  
  


Harm fiddled with the blue and gold ribbons he'd gotten tied around the bear's neck. “You can call me Harm,” he paused. “I work for my government, Molly,” he said.

  
  


“And what, exactly, do you do?” she asked.

  
  


Harm smiled a little. “I'm a JAG officer,” he said. “A Navy lawyer. We investigate, and either prosecute or defend criminal cases within the United States Navy and Marine Corps.”

  
  


“I see,” Molly said. She shot a look at Ms. Wilson.

  
  


“I had a long talk with his grandmother, Molly,” she said. “We also checked his background thoroughly and there's nothing to worry about.”

  
  


Molly inclined her head. “And what do you know about children, Mr. Rabb?”

  
  


“Not much, ma'am,” Harm admitted. “But Harry is family, and we Rabbs take care of our own. I expect I'll be learning as I go.” He hoped that the interview would end soon. He was tired. What he wanted most was to at least see the little boy who had brought him to Britain before he found something to do until he could get a bit of rack time without prolonging his jet lag. “Tell me about Harry?” he requested.

  
  


At that comment, Molly looked as if she'd aged a year. “Aside from the injuries, he's shown some troubling behaviours,” she admitted. “He's terrified of baths, he spends most of his time hiding in corners and under things, and I know I've seen him hiding food from his plate in his pockets. He's been starved, that's obvious, and I have a diet plan for him as well as some potions. You'll need to have him see a Healer where you live for long-term treatment.”

  
  


A knot tied itself in Harm's stomach. He was familiar, at least in passing, with some of those; he'd done some reading for an abuse case he'd worked as a very junior attorney. “I'll have to make an appointment with a counselor as well as the regular doctor for him when we get home,” he said quietly. “As soon as the paperwork goes through, he'll be seeing one over at Bethesda.”

  
  


“Make sure it's in section 5B,” Ms. Wilson offered. “That's the section for the purple files, the magical ones. Potions Master Snape will be contacting you with potions formulated just for Harry before you leave.”

  
  


Harm decided to leave that question for later. “May I see him, please?” he requested.

  
  


“He doesn't like loud noises,” Molly warned. “You're going to have to be very gentle with him.”

  
  


Harm nodded. He'd been planning on it ever since he'd talked to Grandma Sarah. He hadn't seen Harry yet, but as far as he was concerned, there was a four-year-old baby who was part of _his_ family that needed someone to take care of him and protect him, and he was more than willing to sign up for the whole tour of duty. “I brought him a little present,” he said with a small smile. “My best friend is taking care of a bedroom for him back home, and I can get whatever else he needs there, too.”

  
  


He stood up and followed Molly as she left the parlor. “He's in the sitting room,” she said.

  
  


As silently as he could, Harm walked into the sitting room and looked around. He ignored the boy who was sitting in a battered armchair reading because he was much too old. Likewise, he ignored the four other red-haired children who were playing noisily on one side of the room. Instead, he focused on the little boy with black, messy hair who was huddled in a corner. The child was tiny--much smaller than Josh had been at that age, and it looked as if his clothing was swallowing him whole. He walked over and dropped to his knees to be closer to the child's level. “Hello,” he said softly, ignoring Molly and Ms. Wilson, who were both watching from the door. “My name is Harm, what's your name?”

  
  


“Freak Boy Harry,” the child whispered.

  
  


At those words, the knot in Harm's stomach tightened. It was a damn good thing that his cousin was dead. A damn good thing. As it was, he was making damn sure that Harry got whatever was left of their estate. It was a poor excuse for justice, but as Petunia and her husband were dead, he supposed it was the best he could do. “Is that what your aunt and uncle called you?”

  
  


Harry nodded. “Uh huh.”

  
  


“You know,” Harm said softly. “I think they were lying, because you're not a freak at all. Do you know what a lie is?”

  
  


“It's when somebody says something that isn't true,” Harry said. “Like when Dudley says that I ate the biscuits and the crisps when he did it.”

  
  


Harm smiled. “I'm a boy,” he said. “But that's not my name. You know what I think? I think that your name is Harry, and that it's a nice name for a nice little boy.”

  
  


Tears welled up in Harry's big, green eyes. “But I'm a bad boy,” he whispered. “Aunt Pet'nia and Uncle Vernon say so.”

  
  


Harm shook his head. “I think they were lying about that, too,” he said. “You see, I brought you a new friend, and he's been telling me how much he wants to meet you.” He put the bear next to Harry. “He told me to tell you that he's a Lieutenant Commander in the Navy like I am, but he left his uniform at home because we're not supposed to wear them in public here.”

  
  


Harry nodded and timidly reached for the bear. He touched it with a single finger. “He's soft,” he whispered.

  
  


Harm smiled, his heart aching as he noticed Harry's work-roughened little hands. “That's why I brought him just for you,” he said. He watched as Harry picked the bear up gently, as if he were afraid it would disappear. “I'm part of your family, little one,” he said. “I came all the way from America to ask you a question.”

  
  


Harry looked up at him, his eyes huge in his thin face. “You did?”

  
  


Harm nodded solemnly. “I want to know if you'll be my little boy forever, Harry. I'd like to take you home with me.”

  
  


Harry hugged the bear to his chest. “Can I keep the bear?” he asked.

  
  


“Of course you can, little one,” Harm said with a smile. “My boss, the Admiral, is getting us a house on base so you can have your own room, and my best friend is going shopping for brand-new furniture for it, too.”

  
  


“Really?” Harry asked.

  
  


Harm just smiled and held out his hand. “Really.”

  
  


Hesitantly, Harry stood up and, holding the bear tightly, reached for the proffered hand. “Can we go now?” he asked quietly.

  
  


Harm stood up, with the tiny hand still clasped in his larger one. At that first touch he'd felt a small shock--a frisson of electricity much like the one he'd felt when he shook Mac's hand when they'd first met. “Of course we can, little one,” he said gently. “I'm going to pick you up now, okay?”

  
  


Harry nodded and, tucking his bear in more securely, held out one arm. Harm picked him up and settled him on his left arm, and rubbed the child's back. With a soft sigh, Harry laid his head on Harm's shoulder and wrapped his free arm around his neck. It felt... right. It felt as if it should have always been like that. It felt as if little Harry belonged there in his arms and always had. There was a connection there. Like he had always had with his parents and Grandmother. It was different than the one he had with Mac, but just as strong and powerful.

  
  


Harm knew, at that moment, that he would do anything to protect the little boy, not just because he was a distant cousin, but because Harry was _his_ child now. It didn't matter that he didn't know the boy well, nor did it matter that he didn't love him yet; he could tell that Harry would be an easy child to love. What mattered was that this tiny child needed him, and he was family. They were connected. He didn't understand the connection; he just knew it was there. He turned his head and pressed a kiss on the small forehead, then went to go speak with the casewitch.

  
  


“Are you sure that you haven't much experience with children, Mr. Rabb?” Molly asked with an amused smile.

  
  


“Positive,” he answered. “I'm just doing what feels right, ma'am. Now, did you get any of Harry's belongings? I'd like to take Harry with me if that's all right.”

  
  


“He had a small bundle with him,” Molly said. “I'll go get it.” She hurried away, leaving Ms. Wilson to talk to him.

  
  


"Of course it is, Mr. Rabb. I've rarely seen a child in Harry's situation take to someone so quickly," Ms. Wilson said with a warm smile.

  
  


Harm studied her for a moment before he spoke. “My grandmother said that Petunia had a son, too. May I ask what happened to him, ma'am? I'd like to know if he's safe.” Harry stiffened in his arms, so he rubbed the child's back a bit until he relaxed. “She hinted that he had other family to take him, but I'd like to make sure.”

  
  


For a moment, Ms. Wilson looked disturbed. She pulled a notepad out of her purse and looked at it. “I'm not sure, Mr. Rabb,” she admitted finally. “I have some contacts that might know, though. I'll let you know before the end of the week.”

  
  


“Thank you, ma'am,” Harm said with a nod. Before he could say anything else, Molly came back, carrying a small bundle and a satchel..

  
  


Harm looked at it. “Is that everything?” he said in disbelief.

  
  


“It's all he had with him when I picked him up,” Ms. Wilson explained. "The satchel contains his potions. I believe the dosing instructions are on the labels."

  
  


“Okay,” Harm looked down at Harry. “Little one, do you know your old address?” he asked.

  
  


Harry looked up fearfully and nodded. “Are you giving me back?” he asked, his voice shaking.

  
  


Harm tightened his arms around the child. “Not a chance in hel--heck,” he promised. "You're _my_ little boy now, and I won't allow anyone to hurt you if I can help it."

  
  


“Number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey,” Harry whispered.

  
  


“Good boy,” Harm praised. He kissed Harry on the forehead again. “We're going to go there to get the rest of your things, okay?”

  
  


“No Aunt Pet'nia and Uncle Vernon?” Harry questioned.

  
  


Solemnly, Harm shook his head. “They died, kiddo,” he said. “Aside from their funeral, you'll never have to see them again.”

  
  


“All right,” Harry said shakily.

  
  


“If you'll come with me, Mr. Rabb, we'll summon the Knight Bus at the end of the lane.”

  
  


Harm nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Weasley, for watching my boy,” he said quietly.

  
  


Molly smiled. “My pleasure.”

  
  


Harm followed the casewitch outside, and Harry snuggled into him. For the first time in a long time, Harm felt... content. He knew things were changing drastically, but at the moment, he really didn't give a damn. He'd finally gotten something he'd wanted for years—a family, and despite the fact that he was neither dating anyone nor married, for now, it was enough.

  
  


~*~*~*~

 

 

 

_TBC..._

 


	4. Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**Chapter 4:**

**Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch**

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

  
  


_"The test of the morality of a society is what it does for its children."_

_\--Dietrich Bonhoeffer_

  
  


_~*~*~*~_

  
  


2130 ZULU

THURSDAY, 15 OCTOBER, 1998

LEAVING DULLES AIRPORT

WASHINGTON, DC, USA

  
  


Mac flipped her cell phone closed and smiled in satisfaction. Harriet was meeting her at the Navy Exchange so that they could get some furniture for Harry's new room. She stepped on the gas, hard, as she got onto the freeway. She'd never been fond of furniture shopping, so she wanted to get it over with. The things she did for friendship...

  
  


Mac reached over and turned on the radio, flipping to her favorite country station. Absently, she sang along as she maneuvered through traffic. She grimaced when her cell phone chirped and picked it up. “Major Mackenzie,” she said, keeping her eyes on the road.

  
  


“You must be Harmon’s Sarah,” a soft voice said.

  
  


“Mrs. Rabb?” Mac hazarded.

  
  


“Of course I am. Jacob, my hired man, is bringing me down next week with the rocker.”

  
  


Mac wasn’t exactly sure why Harm’s grandmother had called her, but she was willing to go along with it, she supposed. “Rocker?”

  
  


Grandma Rabb sighed. “Yes, dear. The heirloom rocking chair. It’s been in my husband’s family for around two hundred years. It was supposed to go to Harmon when he got married, but he’s doing things a bit catawampus, so he’s getting it now. Rabb babies have been rocked in it for generations, and I don’t see why this one should be any different, for all he’s a McKinnon. I thought you might want to know if you’re buying furniture for the little one; it’s made of oak.”

  
  


“Thank you, Mrs. Rabb,” Mac said quietly. She hit the turn signal and slowed, trying to get over.

  
  


“Call me Grandma, dear,” the older woman said.

  
  


“Yes, ma’am,” she replied automatically. After a few more pleasantries, Mac ended the call. She supposed that they ought to try and get at least the same kind of wood for Harry’s bedroom furniture. It depended on what she and Harriet liked, really. Before she knew it, she’d arrived at base, flashed her ID, given the guard an analyst’s salute*, and was on her way to the Navy Exchange. Quickly, she whipped into a parking spot, climbed out of her small car, and locked it.

  
  


“Major!” 

  
  


Mac turned around to see Harriet waving at her. She smiled at her blonde friend and hurried towards her. “Hey, Harriet,” she said. “You know, we're not in uniform, so...”

  
  


Harriet smiled. “I know, it's just--”

  
  


“Yeah,” Mac agreed. She knew it was hard to get out of the habit.

  
  


Suddenly, Harriet was all business. “Any ideas of what kind of furniture to get?” she asked. “You said the Commander's new son is four, so he'll need a booster seat or a car seat for him.”

  
  


Mac bit her lip. “I didn't realize that he'd need more than a bed, desk, and a dresser,” she admitted. “I doubt that Harm has anything for a twin-size bed, so we'll need to get linens, too.”

  
  


Harriet nodded as they walked into the store. “With the weight limits on international travel, he'll need clothes and things, as well.”

  
  


Mac groaned a little. “Clothes can wait,” she said. “From what Harm said, the kid's been neglected and abused, so we'd need him along to make sure that they fit.”

  
  


Harriet nodded absently as they headed to the furniture. “Perhaps we should just throw the Commander a baby shower,” she suggested. “We could combine it with a house warming or something. I mean, with the Admiral pushing the paperwork through, if he's lucky and there's an opening, Commander Rabb should be in base housing by the time he gets back.”

  
  


Inwardly, Mac grinned. She could see it now—Harmon Rabb surrounded by pastel wrapping paper and frilly baby presents. “It would probably help,” she offered finally. “Right now, though, we need to just get the basics for Harry's room.”

  
  


Harriet looked interested. “Is that his name?” she asked.

  
  


Mac nodded. “Come to think of it,” she said, “Harry could easily be a nickname for 'Harmon.' I wonder if Harm's cousin named her son after him. And considering that it was Harm's father's name, it could well be a family name, anyway.”

  
  


“True,” Harriet said, her blue eyes sparkling. “Now, furniture...”

  
  


Mac caught sight of a bright red bed shaped like a corvette and laughed softly. “Now that,” she inclined her head towards it, “Is something that Harm might buy.”

  
  


Harriet examined it briefly. “True, but it won't last long.”

  
  


Mac nodded in agreement. “He'd outgrow it, and it doesn't look too sturdy." She grinned. "If it was an airplane bed, I'd bet a month's pay that Harm would buy it anyway."

  
  


Harriet simply grinned, but Mac could see the suppressed laughter in her eyes. "Harm's grandmother is bringing down his family's rocking chair, and she said it was made of oak,” Mac said.

  
  


“We should probably get furniture made of the same material, at least,” Harriet said. “Do you know if it's light or dark?”

  
  


Mac shook her head, because Grandma Sarah hadn't said. The two women wandered around a bit, but didn't see anything they liked. They did, however, purchase a toddler car seat that was touted as being able to fit children from two to five. After a bit of discussion, they headed to another store before they found a bedroom set that they liked. It was yellow oak, and she hoped it would at least partially match the old rocking chair. After arranging for delivery to Harm's apartment, they picked up some classic Winnie-the-Pooh bedding, with matching curtains and a valence, as well as a matching lamp and night light. She figured that there was a pretty decent possibility that Harry would be familiar with the character, and perhaps it would bring him a bit of comfort in an unfamiliar environment.

  
  


With a promise to help plan Harm's party, Mac and Harriet separated. Mac hoped that they had at least the basics. Quietly, she made plans to get little Harry a few toys as a welcome home present. She wasn't sure if she'd fit into Harm's new life at all, but she didn't want to lose her best friend. If that meant convincing Harry to like her, then she'd do what she could, because she simply couldn't see her life without Harm's friendship.

  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  


1330 ZULU

THURSDAY, 15 OCTOBER 1998

JAG HEADQUARTERS

FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA USA

  
  


Admiral AJ Chegwidden leaned back in his chair with satisfaction. He'd spent more than a few hours on the phone pulling strings to arrange base housing for Rabb, but it was worth it. He'd been lucky in that someone had just been transferred and was moving out so there had been a vacancy, and he'd been able to get Harm's name on the top of the list. Harriet was arranging for everyone to come and help move the bulk of his things, but it would be another few days before Harm's new quarters would be ready to move into anyway. The Lieutenant Commander was one of his best people, as well as being the son he'd never had. Some would say that Rabb was the son he'd never wanted. AJ smiled slightly. Ever since Bud and Harriet had gotten married, he'd figured that they'd be the first of his senior staff to have children, but now he knew he'd been wrong. True, Harm's method wasn't quite orthodox—after all, how often did one inherit a child?-- but he was still the first.

  
  


They would be having a moving party to move the Commander's things to his new house on Wednesday next, and the Admiral figured that it would take at least that long for Harm to take care of all the loose ends of his cousin's estate. Everything would be in place in plenty of time for the man's return.

  
  


AJ could see that Rabb had been feeling restless lately since discovering the truth about his father's death. He had a feeling that gaining a son would ground the man. At least, he hoped so. He needed Rabb on staff; his unique combination of talents were hard to come by. Not to mention that he was the best investigator that AJ had. With a grimace, he turned back to one of the banes of his existence—paperwork. There were days when he wondered why in hell he'd accepted his job; as Judge Advocate General for the whole damn US Navy, he had paperwork coming out of his ears. Then again, he was too old for fieldwork anymore, his SEAL days were long-gone, there weren't many two-stars driving ships, and he truly loved the law. Besides, one of the perks of his job was that he could arbitrarily decide to be counsel on any case he damn well pleased.

  
  


Hell, if it kept the Commander at headquarters, he'd even stand as counsel when the man inevitably adopted the boy. He was jolted out of his musings when the intercom buzzed. “What is it, Tiner?” he asked.

  
  


“It's the Commander's parents, Admiral,” his yeoman replied. 

  
  


“They do know he's in London, don't they?” he asked.

  
  


“Oh, yes, sir!” Tiner said. “They're on the phone for you, sir. Line three.”

  
  


“Thank you, Petty Officer,” AJ said, then picked up the phone and hit the correct button. “AJ Chegwidden speaking.”

  
  


“Admiral, this is Frank Burnett,” a quiet voice said.

  
  


“How can I help you, Mr. Burnett?” AJ asked.

  
  


“As my son's commanding officer, I assume you would know... Has he made arrangements for someone to take care of my grandchild when you send him out of town?” Frank asked.

  
  


AJ leaned back in his chair. Even he hadn't thought of that. “I'll be doing my best to cut back on how many out of town assignments he gets at first,” he said slowly. “But I don't think that he's thought of that yet.”

  
  


“I thought not,” Frank said with satisfaction. “My son thinks well on his feet, but long-term planning isn't exactly his forte, Admiral.”

  
  


“True,” he admitted. “I believe that's why he works so well with Major Mackenzie—she's the one who plans for them.”

  
  


Frank chuckled. “My wife claims it was the same with herself and her first husband. Between the two of us, we've thought of something that might work. My wife and I will be there on Monday, and we'll be checking a few agencies to hire a bonded nanny for him.”

  
  


AJ sat up straight. That hadn't even occurred to him. “Mr. Burnett, I'm not sure if he can afford that at his rate.”**

  
  


“Money is not a problem,” Frank said with a hint of laughter in his voice. “Trish is insisting that we pay for it, and I can't say I mind. And even if we didn't, he's never touched his trust fund--he could retire right now and never have to worry about money. We just have to get it through our son's thick head that we _are_ going to do this for him.”

  
  


AJ laughed softly. “It's a good thing he has a thick skull,” he remarked. “At least sometimes.” A slow smile spread over his face. “I think I shall have to assist you and your wife,” he said.

  
  


“Admiral?” Frank questioned.

  
  


“I know of a man who is currently between jobs who has degrees in early childhood development and child psychology,” he said. “Last I heard, he was working on a Master's in art therapy. I'll run a security check, but I'm sure he'll pass.”

  
  


“Thank you, Admiral,” Frank said quietly. “Now all we need to do is convince Harmon to accept the new car we're giving him as well.”

  
  


For a few moments, AJ was shocked. “New car?” he asked.

  
  


“Small children and classic corvettes don't mix,” Frank said simply. “It's not like it will cost us much; I do, after all, work for the company.”

  
  


Belatedly, AJ remembered that Frank Burnett was a senior vice president for Chrysler. It only made sense that the man could get a car for his stepson at cost. “Ah,” he said. “Please tell your wife that I'm looking forward to meeting her.”

  
  


Frank laughed. “We've heard quite a bit about you and your staff over the years, Admiral,” he said. “She said to tell you that if she has it her way, Harmon won't be in base housing for long; she remembers those houses far too well to allow her grandchild to grow up in one.”

  
  


AJ snorted. Base housing was fine for short term, but if he had it  _his_ way, the Commander would be staying in the DC area for the foreseeable future and would need something more permanent. “Good luck to her,” he said. 

  
  


“She's already contacted some agents,” Frank said. “I have the feeling that we'll be dragged around looking at properties for the next few weeks.”

  
  


AJ laughed softly. “I'll have to tell the Commander that I'm sorry,” he said. After a few more minutes of conversation, he ended the call and leaned back, a little smile on his face. He'd have to call the Gunny. The man was okay... for a Marine. He had the qualifications, and with psychos like Palmer who kept turning up like bad pennies and coming after Rabb, it would be wise to have someone around when Harm wasn't to protect the child.

  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  


1000 ZULU

WEDNESDAY, 14 OCTOBER 1998

THE BURROW

OTTERY SAINT CATCHPOLE

DEVON, UK

  
  


Harry stared, wide-eyed as a triple decker, lurid purple bus appeared from seemingly nowhere with a loud bang. The lady who had brought him to the red-haired people had held out her stick and somehow made it appear. He tightened his grip on Harm, not wanting to be put down at all. He didn't remember ever having been held as gently as the man was holding him, and he liked it. For the first time he could remember, he felt... safe.

  
  


The woman climbed inside it, and Harm followed. Harry listened quietly as the conductor explained that the bus was called the, 'Knight Bus' and that it was transport for stranded witches and wizards. Harry held on tighter. He'd heard about witches from stories that his aunt had read Dudley. Witches were bad in the stories. According to his aunt and uncle, magic was bad, unnatural, _freakish_. Maybe they didn't like him because he was magic? Strange things _did_ just happen around him, after all.

  
  


Harry looked around with interest as the grown-ups paid the fare. The bus was filled with mismatched squashy armchairs that didn't seem to be bolted down or anything. There was a chandelier hanging from the middle of the bus, all lit up with candles. It smelled like melting wax with a bit of an undertone of sweat socks and hot chocolate. He barely noticed when Harm told the driver his Aunt and Uncle's address in favor of getting as close to his new guardian as possible. Harm sat down in one of the chairs and smoothed Harry's hair back. The little boy closed his eyes and smiled softly. It felt so good!

  
  


“Blimey!” the conductor exclaimed softly. “It's 'Arry Potter!”

  
  


Harry simply turned his face into Harm's neck. In his experience, getting noticed was a bad thing.

  
  


“He's a little boy,” Harm said quietly. “I don't know why you know his name, but you _will_ leave him alone.”

  
  


The conductor gulped audibly. “Yes, sir,” he said. The bus started with a bang, almost hurling them forward.

  
  


Harm rubbed Harry's back gently, and he leaned into the touch. He relaxed a bit and allowed himself to be settled in the man's lap. He grabbed handfuls of Harm's shirt to make sure that he couldn't be separated from him.

  
  


“I can't believe that you don't know,” the woman said.

  
  


Harry felt it as Harm moved to look at her as the bus lurched forward. “Know what?” he asked. “I came because my cousin here needed me.”

  
  


Harry tightened his grip as they started sliding back and forth in the bus, occasionally lurching from side-to-side as well. “I'll set up a meeting with someone who can explain,” she said.

  
  


“Thank you,” Harm said. 

  
  


The motion of the bus, combined with the feeling of Harm rubbing his back made Harry sleepy. A slow, drowsy smile slid over his face. Lulled by the sound of Harm's heartbeat, he fell asleep.

  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  


1030 ZULU

WEDNESDAY, 14 OCTOBER 1998

4 PRIVET DRIVE

LITTLE WHINGING, SURREY UK

  
  


Harm stepped out of the Knight Bus and eyed the house. It was more than simply squared away; it was obsessively tidy, and that was only the outside. He walked up to the door and rang the bell. A grossly overweight woman who greatly resembled the bulldog standing at her feet answered the door. “You must be here for the funeral,” she said, by way of greeting. He could smell the alcohol around her.

  
  


“Harmon Rabb,” Harm said. He shifted Harry so that he could hold out his hand. “I'm Petunia's cousin.”

  
  


She shook his hand, holding on a shade too long, then snorted, but moved aside. “I wasn't aware she had any.”

  
  


Harm went inside with the casewitch at his heels. “My grandmother and I are her last living relatives, aside from her nephew, Harry, of course.”

  
  


“The runt,” she said with a scowl. "Takes after his mother. If there's something wrong with the bitch, there's something wrong with the pup! Wouldn't have allowed that one to live, I wouldn't!"

  
  


Harm's stomach roiled. How dare she? He employed some of his military discipline to keep from doing something he'd regret later. His mother and grandmother would kill him if he decked the woman. “And your name is?” he asked in a deceptively soft voice.

  
  


“Marjorie Dursley,” she answered, not-so subtly glancing at his ring finger. “I'm Vernon's sister.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “You may call me Marge.” She smiled at him in a way that Harm was sure was supposed to be seductive, but only succeeded in making him nauseous. “The funeral is day after tomorrow at eleven in the morning at Christ Church, Harmon—may I call you Harmon?”

  
  


“Ms. Dursley,” he said quietly, ignoring the request to address him by his given name. “May I assume that you have taken custody of Petunia's boy?”

  
  


“One must look after family,” she simpered.

  
  


Harm nodded, absently stroking Harry's hair. “That _is_ the reason why I flew in from Washington,” he said quietly.

  
  


Marge frowned a bit, her face scrunching up and her beady little eyes disappearing into rolls of flesh. “You got the runt?” she asked. “Poor you.”

  
  


Harm frowned. “You'd be short and skinny as well if you'd been starved,” he remarked.

  
  


“Starved?” she sputtered indignantly. 

  
  


Harm adjusted the sleeping boy and pushed up the sleeve of his shirt so that a hand-shaped bruise was showing. “Abused as well,” he informed her. Gently, he laid Harry down on the couch, making sure that the bear stayed tucked under the child's arm.

  
  


Marge's frown deepened into a scowl. “Who are you to bring such accusations?” she demanded.

  
  


Harm leaned back a little and favored her with a slight smile. “Oh, I didn't,” he replied. “Children's Services did. _I_ am Harmon James Rabb, Junior, Lieutenant Commander in the United States Navy, Naval Aviator, currently assigned to the Judge Advocate General Corps, and my Commanding Officer would say that I'm one of his best lawyers and investigators. Part of my job is seeing that scum like Petunia and Vernon Dursley get sent to jail where they belong. And since they conveniently died to escape justice...”

  
  


Marge paled, then her face started to redden. “I think I would know,” she said frostily. “I do visit several times a year...”  
  
  


“Perhaps we should speak to Petunia's son,” he said mildly.

  
  


Marge gave him a stiff nod and headed towards the stairs. “Dudley,” she called.

  
  


It was a long few minutes before a blond child who was obviously working on a goal to become wider than he was tall waddled down the stairs. The boy hadn't managed it quite yet, but it was only a matter of time. Harm supposed that the best way to describe the kid would be “a pig in a wig.” Small watery blue eyes buried in rolls of fat spotted Harry and he lumbered over. With a nimbleness that belied his size, he scampered to his cousin and snatched the bear out of the sleeping child's arms. “This is _mine_ ,” he proclaimed.

  
  


Without conscious thought, Harm reacted. He stood up, took the bear from Dudley, tucked it back in Harry's arms, grabbed Dudley, turned him around, and delivered a hard, stinging swat to the child's ample backside.

  
  


Dudley let out a yell as if Harm had murdered him. “That was a warning,” Harm said dryly. “Lying and stealing... you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  
  


Marge's face turned an ugly shade of purple. “How dare you accuse my nephew of lying and stealing?” she demanded. “If Dudley says that the bear is his, then it is!”

  
  


“I can show you the receipt, madam,” Harm said. “I gave that bear to Harry less than an hour ago, and I brought it from Washington.”

  
  


Dudley crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Harm. “The Freak doesn't own anything,” he said with a scowl. “Mummy and Daddy told me that he doesn't deserve the stuff we give him. Daddy says that they should've left him on the doorstep instead of letting him live in our cupboard.”

  
  


“Cupboard?” Harm's voice was dangerously soft.

  
  


Dudley waddled over to a small, wallpapered door and opened it. “The Freak lives in here,” he said. His small, piggy eyes must've spotted something, because he snatched it off the floor and almost ran to where Harry was sleeping, his footsteps shaking the room with the force of a small elephant, causing the china to rattle in the hutch. He punched Harry, hard. “You took my knight,” he said.

  
  


Harry whimpered a little, but didn't wake.

  
  


Harm wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose, because he could feel a headache coming on. His first instinct was to spank Dudley, but he resisted. Instead, he grabbed the boy, put him in the nearest armchair, and squatted down to his level. “Why did you do that? We don't hit people.” He was pretty sure that his godson, Josh, at four, hadn't gone around hitting smaller kids like Dudley did.

  
  


Dudley glared at him while Marge made protesting noises. “He stole my knight,” Dudley whined.

  
  


“Let me see it,” Harm said.

  
  


Dudley opened one fat fist and showed him a one-legged knight.

  
  


“And when was the last time you saw it?” Harm asked.

  
  


“When I threw it in the bin.”

  
  


“Then why does it matter, if you threw it away?” Harm asked quietly. “You didn't want it anymore.”

  
  


“Because it's _mine_!” Dudley shouted. “And the Freak can't have anything of mine! It's bad enough that he gets my old clothes!”

  
  


“You've got five minutes,” Harm said. “You _will_ stay where you are or there will be consequences you won't like.”

  
  


Dudley simply scowled at him. “The Freak deserves what he gets,” he said. “Daddy and Mummy said so every time he got punished. Mummy even said so when I pushed him down the stairs.”

  
  


Harm turned to Marge, who was still sputtering, and raised an eyebrow. “My condolences, madam. It looks like you have your hands full with this one if you don't want him to end up in prison.”

  
  


Marge sneered at him. “You're a fine one to talk,” she said. “That one,” she pointed at Harry, “Will end up dying like his parents, unemployed drunkards who were at fault in the accident that killed them. Bad blood will win out. Should've been drowned at birth! I don't know much about the father, but his mother was the runt bitch of the litter, and it shows.”

  
  


Harm snorted. “I spent the summer with the Evanses when I was twelve,” he said dryly. “Lily was a very sweet girl, but Petunia was a jealous, spiteful harridan. I guess some things never changed.”

  
  


“I don't know where you get your information from, Ms. Dursley,” Ms. Wilson said. “I really don't. Lily and James Potter were murdered. And they were far from unemployed drunkards. Lord and Lady Potter had no need to work—everyone knows that—but Lord Potter was well known in law enforcement, and Lady Potter was in research for the Ministry.”

  
  


Marge's face changed colors so fast that Harm was almost sure that she was going to have a stroke on the spot. “Grandma said something about some entailed estates that Harry will get once he comes of age from our side of the family when I talked to her on the telephone this morning,” he said mildly. “I believe there was a title attached to those, as well.”

  
  


Marge sent him a glare. “Petunia was older than her sister and Dudders is older than the runt,” she sneered. “If there are estates and titles, they should rightfully belong to him.”

  
  


Harm knew he would probably hate himself for this later, but he couldn't help himself. The woman simply rubbed him wrong. He'd heard from his grandmother that the estates were entailed for the first fully qualified magical male descendant; Dudley didn't count. Lily couldn't inherit the estates, being female, but they had passed into her keeping after the death of their other cousin as the first magical descendant for her firstborn son. Because Grandma was older than her identical twin sister by 12 minutes, if he or his father had been fully magical, they would have been the ones to inherit. He walked over and glanced into the cupboard before replying. “I believe Petunia failed to meet the conditions to inherit,” he said mildly. “ _Now_ who's the runt bitch of the litter? My lawyer will be contacting you about remuneration for the way you Dursleys treated my new son, and we'll see you at the funeral.”

  
  


Harm walked back to the couch and picked Harry up. “There's nothing worth taking,” he said. “I'll buy him new things that fit and a few new toys before we go home.” Without another word, he left the house. Ms. Wilson followed and called the Knight Bus for them. Briefly, he wondered how people like Petunia and Dudley had come out of the same gene pool as the rest of his family. Sometimes, he reflected, some things were meant to remain unknown.

  
  


~*~*~*~

*Grandpa (career Navy) defined an analyst's salute as a "lazy wave in the general direction of the forehead" He swore that it was all that was necessary for saluting base guards. :D

** rate, or pay rate, depends on rank and time in rank...(please note, it's  _not_ time in uniform, but time in  _rank_ )

~*~*~*~  
  


_**TBC...** _ ****

 


End file.
